Misty and the Single Dad

by Marion Lennox

  ‘Right. And they’d evict her how?’

  ‘Wind,’ he said. ‘If you’re in a small enclosed place they can clear a room at twenty paces. All we do is ease them into her room and lock the door.’

  She smiled again, but absently. ‘She’ll win,’ she said. ‘She has the right.’

  ‘To this house? No, she doesn’t. But it’s okay, Misty. I’ll manage this. This is our home.’ Our home.

  The words had been swirling round for weeks. Our home.

  He held her tight and let the silence soak in his words.

  Our home.

  Her home and his. And Bailey’s and Ketchup’s and Took’s.

  Home.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said again, and he stroked her hair and then he kissed her, first on the top of her head and then on her nose-and then more deeply on her mouth. He was tilting her face, holding her to him, but with no pressure. She could step away at any time.

  The night was far too bleak to step away.

  Nick. What would this day have been without him?

  He loved her and she knew it. This man could make her smile when her world was shattered. How lucky was she that he was here?

  She wanted him.

  And, with that, everything else fell away. The sadness, the shock, the anger. There was only Nicholas, holding her, loving her.

  There was only Nick.

  ‘Can you take me to your bed?’ she whispered and she felt his body still.

  ‘Misty…’

  ‘My mother will be sleeping next door. I don’t want to sleep so close. Please…Nick, tonight I want to sleep with you.’

  ‘I can’t…’ he said and she knew exactly what he was thinking. He couldn’t hold her all night and take it no further.

  ‘Neither can I,’ she whispered and somewhere a chuckle came; somehow laughter was reasserting itself. ‘Not any more. I want you, I need you and unless you don’t have condoms…’

  ‘I have condoms.’ He sounded dazed. ‘You think I’d enter a house you were in without condoms?’

  ‘I do like a man who’s prepared.’

  ‘Misty…’

  ‘You’ve been wonderful,’ she said, but suddenly he was holding her at arm’s length.

  ‘No,’ he said, suddenly harsh. ‘Not that. I’m not accepting an offering, Misty. Do you want me?’

  ‘I…yes.’ There was nothing else to say.

  ‘Then this is mutual lovemaking, or not at all. I want you more than life itself, but I won’t take you as thanks.’

  ‘I do want you.’

  ‘For love? This needs to be an act of love, Misty, or no matter that it’ll tear me in two, it’s separate beds. You’ve had an appalling day. Is this shock and grief talking? Or something else? Something deeper.’ Something deeper?

  Her world was changing. It had changed when Gran died, she thought, and it had changed again when her mother walked in. But now… Something was emerging she wasn’t aware she had. Herself. Misty. She had rights, she thought. This was her life.

  And Nicholas was her man?

  She took his hand, lifting it, resting it against her cheek. He let her be, not moving, letting her make her own declaration as to what she wanted. The back of his hand was against her cheek. She loved the feel of it. The strength. Nicholas.

  She did want. She ran her fingers across his face, a wondrous exploration, never letting her eyes move from his.

  ‘Definitely deeper,’ she whispered. ‘I need to be kissed. More, I need to be loved, and I need to be loved by you.’

  He gazed down at her for a long moment. He smiled, that magical heart-twisting smile-and then he kissed her.

  Magically, his mouth was merging with hers. His hands were holding her face, brushing her cheeks with his lovely long fingers, loving her.

  Loving her with his mouth.

  The awfulness of the day disappeared as the kiss deepened, then deepened still more. She clung to him, aching to be held, aching to lose herself in love. Nicholas…

  But he wasn’t completely done with her. Not yet. He moved back then, just a little, and his eyes were dark with love and desire.

  ‘Misty, love, are you sure?’

  She smiled at that, for she’d never been so sure of anything in her life. This moment. Nicholas.

  ‘Yes.’

  Definitely yes.

  And the word was no sooner formed before she was being kissed again, lifted, held, claimed. Holding her in his arms as if she were a featherweight. A man triumphant with his woman.

  ‘My bedroom,’ he said, and she hardly recognised his voice. It was shaken with passion and desire. It was deep and husky and so sexy she wanted to melt.

  But not here. Not yet. He walked to the door, still carrying her. Paused. Listened.

  They heard a clatter in the kitchen-Grace was still there, then. They could make their way through the darkened passage, through the dividing door, then into Nick’s side of the house.

  Nick’s bedroom was vast. The bed was a big four-poster with too much bedding and too many pillows. It was a bed made for more than one man.

  It was a bed made for a man and a woman, and she wanted to be in that bed.

  Nick was kissing her as he carried her. Then he was kissing her as he set her down on the bed. As he undid the buttons of her blouse. As he held her and held her and held her, closer and still closer.

  She closed her eyes, aching with sensual pleasure. His fingers were tracing the contours of her body, her breasts. Each tiny movement sent shivers of wonder from top to toe.

  She clung to him as he kissed her, holding him, glorying in the strength of him, the sheer masculinity, the wonder of his body. This day had seemed unreal. Now she wanted reassurance that this was happening in truth.

  Her blouse was gone, and so was her bra. Nick was still clothed, but she could feel the strength of him underneath. In a moment she’d attack the buttons of his shirt, she thought. In a moment. When her body had space between trying to absorb the sensations she was feeling.

  They had all the night. They had all the time in the world.

  ‘I think I love you, Nicholas Holt,’ she told him. ‘Is that scary?’

  He pulled away at that, holding her at arm’s length. ‘You think you love me?’ he queried.

  ‘I guess I know.’

  ‘That’s very good news.’ His voice was grave, serious, husky with passion. ‘For I know I love you. I’d marry you tomorrow. I will marry you tomorrow.’

  Tomorrow.

  The word gave her pause. Tomorrow. Grace. The worries that crowded in.

  Nick sensed her withdrawal. He cursed in Tajik. ‘Hey, Misty, don’t look like that.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s tomorrow,’ she murmured. ‘Can we just take this night?’

  A flicker of doubt crossed his face, and she smoothed it away with her fingers. ‘No,’ she said. ‘This is not some one-night stand. I’m not saying that. I’m saying I do love you. I want you. Whether I want to marry you tomorrow…’

  ‘It could be the day after.’

  ‘It could,’ she said and chuckled and tugged him close because she didn’t want him to see doubt. She didn’t want anything to interfere with tonight.

  For tonight there was only Nick.

  He still had clothes on.

  ‘Not fair,’ she said, and started slowly unbuttoning. He was hers, gift packaged, and she was going to take her own sweet time unwrapping.

  Only maybe not. For, as she was concentrating-or trying to concentrate-on buttons, he was kissing her. Slowly, sensuously, achingly beautiful. Her neck, her lips, her eyelids.

  She felt herself arch up to him and felt his fingers cup the smooth contours of her breasts, tracing the nipples, just touching, feather-soft, making her gasp with need and love and heat.

  The night was magic. The moon was full outside, sending ribbons of silver over the ocean, the ribbons finding their way into the bedroom, across the bed, giving two lovers all the light they needed.

  Only she had
to get these buttons off!

  She ripped.

  ‘Uh oh,’ he said.

  ‘Was that a good shirt?’

  ‘My best.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said and her mouth found his nipples and suddenly any discussion of the ripped shirt was put aside.

  He was hers, she thought. One loving gesture and she had him, putty in her hands. Or in her mouth.

  His breathing was ragged, harsh, as her fingers found his belt, unfastened, unzipped. She could hear his breathing deepening. She kissed his neck, tasting the salt of him.

  He’d marry her. Her Nick.

  Her fingers sought and found. Explored.

  Loved.

  Enough. One ragged gasp and he surrendered-or not. His hands caught hers, locked them behind her, and suddenly she was his again, and it was she who was surrendering. He kissed each breast in turn, tantalizing, teasing. Savouring. Their heated bodies moulded together.

  Skin to skin.

  Their mouths were joined again. Of course. It was as if this was their centre-where they needed to be.

  Or maybe… Another centre beckoned. His hands were below her waist and she felt her jeans slipping.

  As everything else slipped. Doubts. Sadness. Anger.

  This night…this time… It was a watershed. Somehow, what was happening right now was firming who she was. A woman who knew what she wanted.

  She wanted Nick, and wondrously he wanted her right back. How cool-how magical-how right!

  But…

  ‘Wait,’ he said, in a voice she no longer recognised. ‘Wait, my love.’

  She must, but it nearly killed her to wait, until he’d done what he needed to do to keep them safe.

  But then there was nothing keeping them apart. The night was theirs.

  Outside, the world was waiting but for now, for this night, for this moment, there was only each other.

  They were lying against each other, their bodies curved against each other, skin against skin. She’d never felt like this. She’d never dreamed she could feel like this.

  A rain of kisses was being bestowed on her neck, her breasts, her belly, while his magical hands caressed and caressed and caressed. The heat…

  The French windows were open. The warm night air did its own caressing, and the soft murmur of the surf was more romantic than any violin. She could vaguely hear the distant chatter of the ring-tailed possums who skittered along the eaves. She’d never felt so alive and so aware and so…beautiful?

  But…hot? Oh, these kisses. The sounds of the night were receding, giving way to a murmur in her ears that was starting to grow.

  He was kissing her low, loving her body, his tongue doing crazy, wondrous things… Amazing things.

  ‘Nick!’

  ‘Hey,’ he growled and chuckled his pleasure and did it again. ‘You like?’

  Did she like? She arched upward, close to crying, aching with need. He was above her, sliding up again so his dark eyes gleamed down at her in the moonlight. He was loving her with his eyes.

  ‘You want me?’ he murmured and what was a girl to say to that?

  ‘Like life itself,’ she managed and she held him and tugged him down. Down…

  But he wasn’t sinking. His arms were sailor’s arms, muscled, too strong for her to fight him. He was forcing her to wait. She arched and moaned and he kissed her, deeply, more deeply still. Holding the moment. Savouring what was to come.

  ‘My Misty,’ he whispered. ‘My heart.’

  ‘I need you. Nick, please…’ Her thighs were burning; her body was on fire, but still he resisted. He lowered himself, a little but not enough, just so his chest brushed lightly against her breasts. He kissed her neck, behind her ears, her throat, her eyelids, and all the while his body brushed her breasts, over and back until she thought she’d melt with desire and love and need.

  No more. What use would she be to this world if she melted into a puddle of aching need, right here on the bed? She took his shoulders and tugged, fierce with want, strong with need, and she rose to meet him.

  And he was there.

  Her love.

  Her Nick.

  Her body took rhythm from his. He was reaching so deep inside her, to the point where love and desire and need melted into one and she felt as if she were dissolving, dissolving, flying.

  The night and the moonlight and the sounds of the sea, the grief of the day, the shock of the night, the luxury of this bed, the feel of this man’s body… There was no separate sensation. No separate thought.

  There was only her love.

  And when finally they lay back, exhausted, as his arms cradled her and she moulded to his body and she felt his heartbeat, she knew her safe haven-her home-was much more than it had ever seemed.

  Nick wanted to marry her. It was a tiny thought at the edge of all the consciousness she had left, but it felt lovely.

  Their bodies could merge over and over. She could lie with this man for the rest of her life. She could help him raise his son, a little boy she loved already.

  Wife and mother…

  It felt… It felt…

  ‘Like a miracle,’ Nick said and he kissed her softly, languorously, lovingly. ‘My Misty. At last I’ve come safe home.’ Safe home.

  They were the last words she heard as she drifted into sleep.

  Safe home.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MISTY stirred, stretched, opened her eyes. Sunbeams were streaming through the windows, falling across the rainbow quilt on the bed. Morning?

  She’d slept spooned in the curve of Nick’s body. Now she could no longer feel him. Oh, but she was so warm. Sated. She rolled over to find him. The grief she’d felt for Gran had eased, backed off, taken its rightful place. She was no longer bereft and grey. Nick…

  Nick’s side of the bed was empty.

  The bedside clock said ten. What was she thinking? Her mother had to be faced. Life had to be faced.

  Was Nick out there, facing it for her?

  She showered fast, in Nick’s bathroom because she didn’t want to be caught by her mother, tousled by sleep, fresh from lovemaking. Besides, she liked the smell of Nick’s soap. It smelled like Nick. Of course it did. So much for distinctive aroma, she thought wryly. Lemon grass? She’d thought it was testosterone.

  She chuckled. Feeling absurdly happy even though Grace was out there-and that was a scary thought-she twisted a towel round her hair, donned Nick’s dressing gown-a gorgeous crimson robe that looked as if it had come from somewhere exotic-of course it had come from somewhere exotic-and scuttled along the passage, through to the other side of the house to find fresh clothes.

  And then she paused. There were voices coming from the kitchen. Her mother. Nick.

  She should dress before she faced her mother, but…

  She hesitated. The kitchen door was almost closed, but not quite. If she stood silent, she could hear every word.

  Why would she want to?

  She did.

  ‘How much?’ It was Nick’s voice, but it was a tone she hadn’t heard before. He sounded harsh and angry, trying, she thought, for control.

  And her mother named a sum that made her gasp.

  What the…? They were discussing…

  She knew suddenly, definitely, what they were discussing. Selling her house.

  ‘It’s Misty’s home,’ Nick said. ‘Her grandmother left it to her.’

  ‘Misty’s grandmother was my mother. This house is my right. I’ll take her to court if I must but I won’t need to. Misty will do the right thing. She always has.’

  ‘You mean you expect her to walk away and leave you to do what you want?’

  ‘I mean she’ll do what’s expected of her.’ Her mother sounded scornful. ‘You don’t know her father. I did. He was a doormat. Misty’s the same. Useful, though. She’s kept this place looking great.’ She could almost sense Grace assessing the place, looking around at the warm wood, at the lovely old furnishings. ‘It’ll get a good price. Much more than
you’re offering. So tell me again why I should accept?’

  ‘Because Misty and I wish to live here. It’s our home.’

  ‘You’re marrying her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, good for you. So buy it outright. Give me market value. Save your wife the nasty business of the courts. That’d upset her, fighting me in the courts.’

  ‘It would or I wouldn’t suggest it,’ Nick snapped. ‘You know she’s a soft option. She’s had no experience of the real world.’

  ‘Then pay,’ her mother said harshly. ‘Of course you can’t expose her to the courts. My mother always said she had to be protected. Don’t tell her about what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘It’ll upset her. And here you are, ready to keep on keeping her safe. Excellent. Nasty thing, reality.’

  ‘I’ll get an independent valuation…’

  ‘You’ll take my price or I’ll see Misty in court.’

  She almost burst in on them then. Almost. Right at the last, she pulled back.

  And here you are, ready to keep on keeping her safe.

  Last night hadn’t been about keeping her safe. Last night had been about loving her, pure and simple.

  Did loving involve keeping her safe?

  Last night she’d been so sure, but now…

  She’s a soft option. She’s had no experience of the real world.

  Standing in the passage, listening to her mother produce valuations of like properties, listening to Nick become reasonable, as if what her mother was suggesting was reasonable, suddenly certainty gave way to doubt.

  Nick was doing this to protect her. She knew it. So why did it seem so wrong?

  Her mother’s words…

  You don’t know her father. I did. He was a doormat. Misty’s the same.

  Anger came to her aid then. She was no doormat. How could Nick simply accept that as fact?

  She’s had no experience of the real world.

  Nick wasn’t going to pay for her house. Hard cold fact. She could go in there right now and tell him so. But something inside her was saying, think. Get this right before you fly in with temper.

  She backed out of the passage, out of the back door to the veranda. Ketchup and Took were out there in the morning sun, supervising the sea. She sank down beside them and they nosed her hands and wagged their tails.